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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430387">My Personal Snow Days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak/pseuds/banjjakbanjjak'>banjjakbanjjak</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pining, Snowbaz Sweethearts Exchange</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:49:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak/pseuds/banjjakbanjjak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with Salisbury is like being snowed in. </p><p>In the short amount of time that he has been here, he’s somehow seeped into every recess and corner of my personal space. </p><p>In a literal sense—he brought his fucking stand mixer, which took up more counter space than I actually had—and in a metaphorical sense—my (our) bathroom now smells like a blend of cedar, bergamot and Lynx Africa.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/redalader/gifts">redalader</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Valentine's Day<br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/redalader/pseuds/redalader">Redalader!</a> It's been so lovely getting to know you these last couple of months (and only really finding out we're close in age and location like...yesterday LOL). </p><p>I hope you enjoy this little ficlet about some flatshare shenanigans and the inevitability that is SnowBaz. </p><p>Also wanted to give a shout out to my lovely lovely betas:<br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover">Sconey</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings">Waterwings</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn">OtherWorldsLivedIn</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>
  <span>I honestly don’t know why I agreed to help Bunce and her flatmate out. It was like the stars aligned and created the perfection conditions for her to swoop in and take advantage of a situation I’m still not quite sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> she found out about. According to her, she learned that I had a spare room in my flat from her roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s friend’s boyfriend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or as I call him – cousin Dev. The git ran off to move in with his boyfriend after someone dropped out of his house share. On the one hand, I’m happy for Dev, but on the other, I’ve heard enough horror stories about university sweethearts moving in together with </span>
  <em>
    <span>explosive</span>
  </em>
  <span> results. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe to say, good for Dev but I’m also </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> optimistic – which is my general outlook on life, but that’s another story for never.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless of who told whom what and why, I ended up agreeing to house Bunce’s flatmate for the time being – until she gets back from her term abroad in America. She must’ve been desperate to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> for help, given that we’re not exactly friends. We’re acquaintances at best; companions, a partnership forged in the hellfire that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>living</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a library where people don't appreciate the meaning of the words “quiet” and “study”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I should’ve known better than to be a magnanimous rich kid because Bunce’s (former) flatmate is </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> else. Honestly, Simon Snow Salisbury should come with a warning label. I knew I made a mistake the moment I opened the door in late August to a freckly face and sweaty curls and a toothy grin that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> the right amount of lopsided to be boyishly charming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baz, right? I’m Simon,” he said, box in his arms, curls stuck to his forehead and cheeks rosy from hauling his boxes up the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pulled my head out of my ass for long enough to hum a response and step aside, cocking my head to invite him in. Feigning aloofness in lieu of finding the right social thing to do is a skill I mastered long ago and lends itself well given… well, my whole brooding, bookish deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, before any awkward silence could set in, Bunce’s head popped behind the doorframe, a simple lightweight lamp in her arms. I was about to make a comment, but it seemed that, aside from this one lamp, Salisbury’s life was summed up into half a dozen boxes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is…is this it?” I asked, looking at Bunce, who offered just as much help as I did with the boxes. Probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Salisbury said. “Never had much anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t want to read too much into that; I’m just glad that the flat wasn’t inundated with Salisbury’s boxes. I’m not a neat freak – I just like things where they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Anyway, your room is the one to the left,” I said, pointing at the barren room that used to be littered with Dev’s junk. “The bathroom is just behind you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Salisbury gave me a nod and started shuffling the boxes into Dev’s old room. Bunce came up and gave me a pat on the back. “Thanks for doing this, Baz.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still not sure how you convinced me,” I said with a huff. “I suspect hypnosis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave an undignified snort. “Just admit you like me and felt like helping out a friend and get over yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” I said with a smirk. “Not when said friend abandons all things good to move across the pond with the heathens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was about to fire something back when there was a soft thud and yelp from the bedroom. “Oi. You two just going to keep chin wagging or you going to lend me a hand?” Salisbury shouted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suspect he was mostly addressing Bunce, because I sure was not going to help. “I believe I’ve helped enough providing a roof over his head,” I said quietly to Bunce. “I think it’s your turn to lend the muscle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bunce rolled her eyes and picked up a box labelled </span>
  <em>
    <span>joggers and shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Oh, you’ll get yours soon enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked at the remaining two boxes on the floor – </span>
  <em>
    <span>baking </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>books</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A fleeting thought crossed my mind to perhaps help and put away these alleged baking supplies (again, I like certain things being in certain places), but when I got to the door to offer my help, I saw Bunce and Salisbury in a tight hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I instinctively looked away, because while I know nothing is going on between them (Bunce choked on her tea when I asked before), they are obviously close. I didn’t want to intrude on their moment. So I quietly pushed the box into the kitchen, silently wished Bunce the best of luck in America, and retreated to my room, determined to wait it out until dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And unbeknownst to me, enjoy the last moment of peace I had in my flat. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Living with Salisbury is like being snowed in. In the short amount of time that he has been here, he’s somehow seeped into every recess and corner of my personal space. In a literal sense—he brought his fucking stand mixer, which took up more counter space than I actually had—and in a metaphorical sense—my (our) bathroom now smells like a blend of cedar, bergamot and Lynx Africa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like I said, Salisbury should come with a warning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t a case of me signing up for something with no clue what to expect (it absolutely is). I was more than ready to make compromises, exceptions, and concessions when Salisbury first moved in. I appreciate that everyone has their own routine, rhythms, and rituals. Dev ran a bath every week, not because he was stressed, but because it’s what he did back at home. This meant I had to either use the bathroom before, or resign to my fate and wait for him to finish a 45-minute soak with his god-awful music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, like any other human, Salisbury has his routines, and it meant that I start off every day cursing his soul into the ninth circle of Hell. The first thing that is apparent is that Salisbury’s an early riser. It doesn’t matter that it’s still summer and uni is a good week and a half away. Every day, without fail, at stupidly early o’clock, he’s up and running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, unlike most boys in their twenties, Salisbury not only wakes up at 8am, but he also gets up and makes a proper breakfast. I’m partial to a slice of toast and a tea in the morning, but Salisbury is one of those </span>
  <em>
    <span>morning</span>
  </em>
  <span> people who believes </span>
  <em>
    <span>breakfast is the most important meal of the day</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Bacon, eggs, toast, beans, sausages and even hashbrowns if he’s feeling particularly torturous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bless him though, because he has offered to make me breakfast on several occasions (when my stomach growled traitorously in his presence). Then, of course, I inexplicably accused him of trying to get someone else to do his dishes for him. It was awkward, but I somehow managed to play it off as banter before hightailing it out of the kitchen, which is slowly becoming Salisbury’s territory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s also one of those monsters who never brushes their teeth after breakfast because, as he once said, “What’s the point? Your teeth are getting dirty anyway. And orange juice is rank after brushing your teeth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his credit, it was a sound argument that made plenty of sense had I actually been in the mood to listen, engage, and maybe call him out for talking with his mouth full. Instead, I was in my bathrobe, hair in a towel and trying to make my way through the chaos that was the kitchen after one of Salisbury’s morning fry-ups. I’m not a violent man, but there’s only so much positive bullshit one should be expected to endure before getting their morning pants on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He also believes in letting the plates soak before washing up. They’ll be left there until lunch, or until just before Salisbury has to rush out the flat to his part-time job at some bakery. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> get them washed and cleaned eventually, but the sight of the dishes left there to pile makes my skin crawl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even let the thought of helping him do them cross my mind because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one to make the mess. Bunce might have been his keeper but I have no interest in being one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mentally, I am aware that none of this is his fault, per se. I haven’t set any boundaries and, for all intents and purposes, I avoid talking to him altogether. In part due to my social ineptitude but also because he is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> attractive.  Every morning, at my most frail and vulnerable, I’m assaulted by freckles, blue eyes, and unfairly straight teeth over a mountain of food. I cannot ’t be expected to confront that when my intellect is still booting up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except I very much do on the last weekend right before uni starts again. I’m not a morning person, hence me relying on showers to help ready myself for the day. I’m not even sure what set me off, but it was most likely the broken mug on the floor, the tea seeping into tile grout and the fact that Salisbury was humming away quietly in the toilet whilst making an absolute mess of my kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bang on the bathroom door, interrupting his stupid song about coins and witchers. “Salisbury! Get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? I’m kinda busy in here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mess you made. Clean it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tap my foot on the floor, and sure enough, a minute later the door swings open. Salisbury has a tissue wrapped around a finger and is wearing nothing but a pair of grey joggers and a silly apron with a goat on it. I’d joke and say he looks sheepish but he doesn’t – in fact, he just looks annoyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sliced my hand picking up the mug. Jesus. Have some empathy, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay. Not so good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just… fine. Just clean it up, and be careful about it. Dust pan’s in the cupboard to the left of the fridge,” I say with a huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I wait for him to step out of the bathroom before closing it as forcefully yet politely as possible.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hoped my shower would make me think more rationally and sensibly, but it just led me to the uncomfortable conclusion that not only did we need to set some boundaries, but that we were fundamentally incompatible as people to live together.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morning showers versus evening showers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big breakfasts versus tea and the blandest of toasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Balanced work ethic with average ambitions versus unhealthy work ethic and a desperation to overachieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has friends versus I have Dev and sometimes Fiona.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s achingly attractive versus my tall and darkness—though arguably handsome in the right light (if I’m being generous).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, Snow and I are destined to merely cohabitate in a shared space. Inoffensively circling each other for the next three months until he goes back to his life, and I get my life back, too. We just have to survive each other until then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After my shower, skincare, and pulling on the comfiest jumper I own, I venture out of my room and find Salisbury watching telly in the living room. I take the remote and turn the thing off and just look at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi!” he says. “Sorry about the mug but do you have to be such a prick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Salisbury,” I say calmly. “Clearly you and I are very different people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t say…” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And in the interest of living together, I propose we both make some…changes, to our lifestyles,” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” he sits up. “You’re not kicking me out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck, Salisbury? No! You might think I’m a dick, but I’m actually quite nice. Unlike you, waking up the entire street at 8am every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not my fault you stay up late all the time,” he says defensively, “but fine, I’ll try to be quieter, but – ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” I say almost reluctantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But no promises. And, listen. My turn. Can you maybe not spend so long in the bathroom at night doing your face shit. I can promise you, going to bed earlier is going to do your skin better than whatever it is you smear on your face and neck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I visibly twitch at the attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll trust my own well-researched skin care routine over your one, which is powered by soap and hope,” I snipe back. “But fine. I’ll move my products out of the bathroom, the ones that don’t need washing off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to raise an eyebrow at me, to tell me it’s my go, and I don’t have it in me to mock such an earnest attempt. “And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laundry. Please separate your colours and whites, and actually take them off the airer once they’re dry? It’s not a walk-in closet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll concede to the airer thing, but why the colours and whites? It’s bad for the environment and shit to do separate washes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A noble argument if he had used more eloquent language than “bad for the environment and shit”. I roll my eyes and actually go to the kitchen and find my box of colour catcher sheets. “Use these. It’ll stop most of the colours from bleeding. Then maybe you’ll actually own a pure white t-shirt that isn’t stained sad-London-grey and blue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so we continue on, mainly just complaining about each other to each other. I refuse to believe that I’m not well adjusted because I lived with Dev just fine, and I’m sure Salisbury is perfectly capable of cohabitation because Bunce was excited enough to move back in with him when she gets back from America. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, through not a lot of yelling but plenty of frustrated sighs, eye-rolls, and some actual jokes, we come up with a generic promise to simply be more considerate of each other without any actual points we could action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that I really care; the English are very good at whinging and complaining without actually doing anything about it. Bunce told me Salisbury was part Welsh, but I’m hoping the apathetic English parts of him win out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I also have my own plan because I like to overthink. I see no reason for us to have to spend more time than absolutely necessary together – it’ll be better for him (I doubt he’d notice) and better for me (I wouldn’t want to wring his neck).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Uni’s about to start again, and I’m confident in the fact that I’ll most likely spend more time in the library than ever, so I’ll probably never see Salisbury. That’s what I’m banking on – pure coordinated avoidance on my part. Salisbury can do what he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for the days we </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to spend together trapped in this stupid flat?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll call them my personal Snow Days.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve promised myself a quiet Friday night in. Uni’s been a bit of a mess in terms of workload and content (I hate my economics degree with a passion, and I hate that I listened to my father’s “advice”), and all I really want to do is to shut down and have a bit of self-care this evening. So when Dev invited me over to spend the evening with him, Niall, and their friends I politely declined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, you never get out, breathe a little,” he said to me on the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just don’t see how an evening playing board games with a room full of people waiting to be outsmarted by me is more fun than tuning out the world on my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could just drink, not try, and lose, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When have I ever just </span>
  <em>
    <span>let</span>
  </em>
  <span> myself lose?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You guys have fun, I’m going to have a night in. I mean, you’re used to being the pretty and dumb one anyway. You don't need me adding to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah. I thought pretty and dumb was your flatmate – my </span>
  <em>
    <span>replacement</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don't worry Dev, no one’s quite as dumb as you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, do one Baz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have a good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know that the only reason why I even had a spare room for Salisbury was because Dev moved out, but I have never considered him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>replacement</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Salisbury is his own person and is nothing like Dev, especially as a flatmate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anything, living with Salisbury for the last month or so has been… honestly, it’s  been fine. An unqualified success in my opinion, despite our rocky start. I’m pretty sure it’s because we’ve only crossed paths properly twice or so in that time period. Though I do know that Salisbury’s been avoiding some of the things he knows wind me up (cooking up a storm in the morning, leaving dishes undone for eons, etc.), and I know I’ve become slightly more efficient in my evening skincare routine – or simply waiting for Salisbury to finish with his shower before even going in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They aren’t compromises, I don’t think. It’s more of a calculated decision to avoid confrontation –, and by extension, each other –, as much as possible. I don’t mind it because it’s like living alone, but not really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel Salisbury’s presence in the flat, always. The lingering stench of Lynx Africa bodywash and deodorant (which I actually threw out last week and simply replaced it with something less obnoxiously </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.) (I don’t think he even noticed). On the weekends, I see his baking tools on full display as he putters about with flour, sugar, and whatever else it is people use for baking – I wouldn’t know. How he always leaves out two warmed-up scones for me on the counter every Monday (the day I have a 9am lecture because God hates me). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His books and case studies form a pile on the dining table, all contributing to his social work degree, next to my spare calculator, worksheets, and journal articles in a neat pile. They compliment each other, if only aesthetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I also caught a glimpse of his room one day, and, true to his nature, not a single thing was folded in his wardrobe. It’s no wonder it looks like he dressed himself in the dark. Just the other day, I made fun of his laundry coming out pink. Not because I have a problem against men in pink (it’s a good look), but because he failed to heed my advice and washed his whites with his rugby kit – his </span>
  <em>
    <span>red</span>
  </em>
  <span> rugby kit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it helps, I have a voucher code, and students have a 10% discount on ASOS. Just buy another multipack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His flared nostrils meant he probably wanted to punch me, but his quiet “thank you” probably meant that he was grateful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things aren’t perfect, but they are what they are, and I don’t hate it as much as I pretend to. It’s fun, bickering and nagging Salisbury, if only to get a reaction. I know it’s juvenile and it’s only because I think he’s fit, but I can’t stop myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long day of reading, making notes, and threatening my fragile hairline, it’s just nice to unwind at home with a very willing punching bag who gives it as a good as I dish it. We’re never nasty to each other, and I know that Salisbury knows it’s all well intentioned because he always laughs about it at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That and the left-overs Salisbury brings back from his part-time job at the bakery always haves at least one </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain au chocolat</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he never touches. My sweet tooth isn’t exactly a secret, but until Salisbury actually told me he brought it home just for me, I never quite dared to eat it. I refuse to be one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> food-stealing flatmates – I might think I’m a villain, but I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>redeemable</span>
  </em>
  <span> one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This little routine we have of avoiding each other, almost by design, means we’ve pretty much learned each other’s schedules. Fridays mean Salisbury has a closing shift at the bakery, which is usually followed up with a pint or six with his friends, and then a Saturday morning wasted in bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which means that I was supposed to have an entire evening with myself in the flat </span>
  <span>–</span>
  <span> as per our unofficial schedule. I was supposed to have utter peace and tranquillity. I think about the many things I can do as I step through the door, and to my surprise, Salisbury is sitting on the sofa, bouncing his knee and staring a hole into his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is an unexpected obstacle to my path of complete self-care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As per the truce I‘ve made up in my head, I move around the flat wordlessly. I notice the box of leftovers is looking particularly full today, and still warm, so I presume Salisbury just got back. Soon, his phone rings and I can hear him jump as he answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Pen!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, I guess that’s why he’s home early today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I unscrew the bottle of wine, grab a glass and start heading out the kitchen when I hear the tail-end of their conversation – not because I like eavesdropping, but because the walls are thin and Salisbury’s loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, it’s fine…yeah promise… fuck, go have fun with Aggie and her friends, I mean it!… Seriously, don’t worry. You’re only in California once right? I’ll talk to you some other time… sounds good. See ya, Pen!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I poke my head out from the kitchen and can see Salisbury’s thrown his head back into the sofa and is just staring at the ceiling. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s disappointed, and it feels wrong to just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span> him there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance down at my hands and decide to throw him a line. If he takes it, I’ll do the right thing as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>caring</span>
  </em>
  <span> flatmate. If he doesn’t, then I can say I tried and absolve myself of responsibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that Bunce? How is she?” I say nonchalantly as I enter the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm? Yeah she’s good. Um… busy with Agatha – we all went to school together, so I’m glad Penny’s not alone. But yeah, she’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peachy,” he says – convincing enough if you didn’t spend the last month breathing the same air he did. So, I set down my bottle and my glass, head back into the kitchen and collect the box of pastries and another wine glass, and all but shove it into his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I raise an eyebrow as I take the remote and turn on Netflix. “Watching TV.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait. That one. Let’s watch that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pride and Prejudice? Really? Didn’t think you’d pick </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you brought the wine. I brought the food. You brought the login. I figured I’d bring the film you’d want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I just stare at him as the title credits begin and he stuffs his face with some powdered sugar monstrosity. Either I’m so painfully obvious that I’m the type of gay who likes Pride and Prejudice, or Salisbury saw the worn out copy of the book on my bookshelf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either way, he’s a lot more insightful than I give him credit for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We sit together in comfortable silence. I don’t even mind Salisbury’s mouth breathing and very vocal reactions to the film’s various plots – which apparently were all new to him. I tell myself it’s the wine, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because I’m actually enjoying my Friday night in with Salisbury of all people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From an evening of concessions, I think I learned something about myself and Salisbury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow days are awful, cold, and inconvenient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They also hold potential for something cosy, warm, and unexpectedly pleasant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Baz?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks. For this. And uh, you’re not as subtle as you </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath, down my drink and simply say, “Just thought we could be lonely together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, you’re dramatic.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The final chapter to this little romantic romp! I hope like it and provides the cute resolution that our boys deserve in every timeline. </p>
<p>It has been a joy writing for you, but more importantly, getting to know you and be on the waiting end as well for your brilliant fic. </p>
<p>Whoever is reading this that isn't Redalader - go read their Sweetheart Exchange fic that they've gifted to me! <br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432628/chapters/72301443">Here!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I still remember exactly how I felt when Baz opened his door three months ago. Mostly sweaty and hot, but also slightly intimidated by the idea of moving in with someone who had so much intensity in his glaring gaze, beauty, and speech. I couldn’t complain, not really, because had Penny not pointed out that I needed a place to stay for the first term of this year, I wouldn’t have realised until it was too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Penny and I had always planned to live together after first year (just so we could tick living in halls off our list), and somehow it had slipped my mind that Penny’s term abroad meant 3 months unaccounted for, accommodation-wise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As always, Penny saved my ass and found me Baz and his stupidly posh flat. He probably doesn’t think too much of it, but it’s spacious, clean, and both rooms are sarcastically oversized. The fact that it’s spitting distance from LSE was probably the only thing he noticed or cared about. It takes me a bit longer to get to uni, but I’m happy I get to live in Central London just </span>
  <em>
    <span>once</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s funny, really, how different Baz is compared to what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks</span>
  </em>
  <span> he is. I have no doubt he fancies himself some brooding millionaire type who’s just a bit too into books and inner monologues, but in reality he’s really </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a good front, I’ll give him that, but I know he only reads as much as he does to be the best in class, rather than some aching innate desire to memorise the entirety of economics. I’d even hazard a guess he’d prefer to be doing something like literature or law or something like that. (I know they’re nothing like each other, but they’d sure as hell suit Baz better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>economics</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s also not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much of a brooding boy, once you get to know him. It’s really just the hair, and height that makes him seem hunched sometimes. Fresh out the shower, with his hair pulled back and skin glowing with about nine layers of Marketing Nonsense on his face, he’s comically antagonistic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like Donald Duck when he gets angry, but in a bathrobe, quacking away trying to prove a point; slightly shrill and a bit difficult to take seriously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One time, during one of his morning tirades, I leant right into his space, hoping it’d unbalance him and he’d run away fuming, flustered and even more ticked off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It worked, of course. And it was cute. Baz is cute. In all his idiosyncrasies and nonsense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can also be a massive cock when he decides to be one. As much as I despise that version of Baz, he almost welcomes me firing back at him without holding back. I did wonder, for a while, if it was just his version of flirting, but then I heard him on the phone one day talking to his cousin and… nope, that’s just how Baz is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only time I considered reading a bit more into it was when Penny bailed on our scheduled call. Baz plopping himself down on the sofa and just…being there, next to me, for a whole evening without starting anything, and even laughing with wine-stained lips. It was nice… it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>natural</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The perfect denouement for a month of bickering that became less and less hostile and just habitual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing happened that night, and we’ve never had a moment like that again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nature of these things mean that if you miss your timing, it will fizzle into nothing. Like a Coke that’s been left out too long, I’m afraid Baz and I (if there ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a “Baz and I”) are becoming flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, three months on, our temporary arrangement is coming to an end. I’m in touch with my emotions enough to recognise I’m a bit sad about it, but I’m not sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>. In theory, I should be ecstatic to move back in with Penny, who’s halfway across the Atlantic right now. Instead, I got a bit glum clearing out my stuff from the bathroom. I’ve gotten too used to cedar and bergamot being the first and last thing I smell every day; it’s almost Pavlovian how that scent just reminds me of Baz. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With half my shit in boxes (the things I bubble wrapped and carefully put away) and the other half still to be dealt with (clothes and crap that I just threw into their boxes last time), it really did feel like it was coming to an end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For fuck’s sake!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pop my head out of my room to see Baz standing in the living room, phone in his hand, wrapped up like a dumpling. Turns out, not even the freak weather of snow in bloody December was enough to stop Baz from going out to the library.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dare I ask?” I say from my room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holborn’s on fire. Quite literally. They’ve shut the library,” he grits out, throwing his bag onto the sofa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just study here, I’ll keep out of your way,” I say. “I’ll just be throwing my clothes into a pile in my boxes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Must you wind me up now? I’m not going to help you pack, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, just thought I’d wind you up one last time,” I say with a grin. “You’ll miss it. Probably.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He mutters something and turns away, and I swear he’s blushing, but it might be the heating and the fact that he’s more knitwear than man at this point. Nonetheless, I watch him set up shop in the kitchen, and I go back to committing crimes against blended cottons and Primark’s finest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My packing doesn’t take long, and soon, everything is ready to go. The man with a van is supposedly coming today, but as I look out the window, I’m not confident it’ll actually happen. Hell, part of me </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want him to come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like Baz and I signed anything official, and I doubt he’d actually turf me out just because I was supposed to move out today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With nothing to do but wait, I venture out to the kitchen to see Baz deep into his notes, typing away furiously on his laptop. The radiator might be on full blast (because I know better than to fight Baz on </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>) but he’s still huddled up with his scarf. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I make my way over and test the waters. “Tea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Four sugars, no milk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three sugars, dash of milk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sarcastically little milk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m not sure when exactly I learned Baz’s bizarre caffeine habits, but here I am. For a while, I entertained learning to make that stupid pumpkin drink he likes, but that felt too forced and I didn’t want anything to be misread – even though there was only really </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> way it </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be read. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe I’m a coward for not daring to make sense of whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is, but I read somewhere how people spending a lot of time together in highly intense situations usually makes them think they feel more than they should. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I think it was Sandra Bullock in</span>
  <em>
    <span> Speed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wise words to live by, I’d say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m just standing here, waiting for my tea to brew, when I get a call. Baz sits up a bit straighter, and I stand up a bit straighter, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey it’s Greg, from Man with a Van,” he says. “Um, not sure if you’ve looked outside the window but…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The snow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah – do you still want me to come over today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I quietly hope that life is inconveniencing me at the most convenient moment. Or at least, giving me an excuse to be inconvenienced. I’m not the plotting kind, but I’m not one to turn down an opportunity in the horse mouth (or however </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> saying goes). “You saying you can’t make it ‘cause of the snow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well I can, but – ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a bit shit, um,” I bluster, hoping the guy will </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. “What can we do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look kid, we can still go today if you want. Just gonna be a bit of a faff and a bit more time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s good. You can reschedule!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright, mate? Like, are we having the same conversation?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine for me to stay…one more night?” I give Baz a tap on the shoulder and give him a look. Waiting for him to nod is the longest moment of my life. “Yeah, it’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right…I’m not sure what’s going on, but – ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep tomorrow at the same time sounds perfect, okay. Bye!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the – ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And I hang up the phone. Not the most elegant I’ve been, but I needed Baz to hear the entire conversation just to convince him </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> had nothing to do with this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not your fault. Seems like today is just… inconvenient,” Baz says. I’ve never heard him stutter or even pause between words, unless it was for dramatic effect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks anyway,” I say. “I’m … going to unpack a bit. Probably need a toothbrush for tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We stare at each other, neither knowing what to say to keep this conversation from going dead until it becomes too awkward to pick up again. Resigning to my fate and my own cowardice, I give Baz a nod and start heading out the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Salisbury,” he says as I cross the threshold into the living room. “You can… you can stay, for as long as the snow’s about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Living with you… wasn’t… terrible. To say the least. I’ll be happy to help you out for a bit longer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I’m a broken record, desperate to hear Baz that wants me. I don’t even care how dumb I sound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was nice… being lonely together, with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My eyes widen and I realise that Baz, despite his layers and sharp edges and brand of nonchalance, had somehow decided to be the brave one out of the two of us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he refuses to suggest more. He raises the stakes, and it’s for me to meet them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two can play at this game, and if I play my hand right, there’ll be no losers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hesitantly, I cross back into the kitchen and walk over to the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Baz.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Salisbury.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Simon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Simon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stand there, towering over him for once and do my best to get the words out before my nerves get to me. “After I move out, I don’t think we </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> be lonely together anymore,” I say. “But, if you’re interested, we can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span> together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Together?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’d be far less lonely, no?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air is positively electric between us; everything is tense, and it feels like just a small static spark can lead to an all-consuming blaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches out and cups his hand around my face, looking down at me, his eyelids slightly drooped and fighting back a smile. “I could do you the honour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Piss off,” I say with a smile and I tug on his scarf until our lips meet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Best snow day of my life.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
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